To Loveand To Cherish

by Patricia Gaffney

  “I do understand,” she exclaimed, taking his hands and holding them against her heart. “Oh, thank God, Christy thank God. The worst was thinking I’d stolen your life’s work from you, destroyed it for you. I couldn’t bear it! Oh, thank God.” She used his knuckles to wipe the tears from her cheeks. He started to kiss her again, but she pressed him back. “I have something to tell you.”

  “What?”

  At the top of a deep, steadying breath, she said, “I prayed for you. Tonight. I knelt on the ground with the others and prayed with them. That you would be saved. I didn’t just mouth the words, or bow my head and pretend. I prayed to God, Christy. Your God. Maybe . . . my God. I believed.”

  He smiled. “Did you?” He looked unimpressed. She thought he might even be humoring her.

  “No, I mean it, I believed. And—I believe now. Not the way you do, but in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s a start, don’t you think? Stop smiling at me like that. I’m serious! I think I’ve been converted!”

  He looked at her for another moment. Then he laughed. He fell on his back and laughed until the tears streamed down his face. She was nonplussed—insulted—amused. When he finally stopped laughing, she lay down beside him, propping her head in her hand. “I’ll need a lot of spiritual instruction, though, or I might backslide.” She traced his lips with her fingers, outlining the curve of his smile. “Good thing I’m marrying a minister, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm. A daily challenge for me. Humility guaranteed for a lifetime.” He took her caressing hand and kissed it, with such tenderness that she ached. “I love you, Anne. I’ll cherish you for as long as we live.”

  Through tears of happiness she made a shocked face. “Longer than that, I hope. The minister I marry has to cherish me for eternity.”

  XXIII

  Casa La Cima

  Ravenna, Italy

  22 April 1856

  My dear Lord D’Aubrey,

  By now you must be well settled in at Lynton Hall. If so, you may have reached the stage of questioning whether your inheritance was the boon you quite reasonably expected or, in fact, a reversal of fortune. If it is any consolation, I had the same misgivings when Geoffrey and I moved into the Hall. All I can tell you is that the place has a way of growing on one. The drafts and the dampness never quite become charming, but one gets used to them, after a fashion, and gradually learns to appreciate the subtler pleasures of country house living. I would enumerate them for you, but half the fun lies in discovering them for yourself.

  You write of the sudden and unexpected retirement of your housekeeper, Mrs. Fruit, as a misfortune. My dear sir . . . how can I put this kindly? I’ll only say that, even if you can find no suitable replacement, even if you go housekeeper-less indefinitely, your household has just taken a giant leap forward in efficiency and smooth running. Far from being a tragedy, that kind old lady’s departure is the godsend I once prayed for but lacked the heartless courage to effect myself by direct action.

  Anne tapped the end of her pen against her lips, wondering if she wasn’t taking too flippant a tone with the new viscount. They’d never met, but she’d received numerous pieces of correspondence from him over the last year or so, in which he had always adopted a most casual manner of address. Indeed, there was a certain world-weariness in his tone that intrigued her. Warden Nineways had felt morally obligated to write a letter telling Christy that the new viscount entertained “unchaperoned London ladies” at the Hall, “at all hours of the day and night.” Anne would have taken this news with a sizeable grain of salt, considering the source, except that not long afterward a corroborating note had come from no less a font of reliable village gossip than Mrs. Ludd, who hinted quite broadly that Lord D’Aubrey was an out-and-out rake.

  Well, what if he was? Anne didn’t care if he brought down and bedded every lady in London and then started on Manchester, so long as he treated his tenants fairly and responsibly. A point in his favor was that he’d agreed to accept the newly vacated post of justice of the peace, and would be joining Mayor Vanstone and Captain Carnock on the bench at the next quarter session. That didn’t sound particularly rakish. Unless he was doing it for a lark. Well, she would find out in time. William Holyoake would know the truth about his new master, and the only trick would be worming it out of him, for one of Holyoake’s most honorable and annoying qualities was his discretion.

  Thank you for your most kind and helpful suggestions regarding sight-seeing and points of interest in Ravenna. As a matter of fact, I know the city already, having spent the early years of my childhood here when both my parents were living. It is exactly as beautiful as I remember it, and my husband, who has been abroad but never to Ravenna, is as enchanted with it as the fiercest loyalist could wish. At this very moment, he’s in Saint Maria Maggiore Cathedral, looking at early Christian marble sarcophagi with a monsignor we met on a tour yesterday. Poor Christy: whenever these kind priests discover he’s an Anglican minister, they immediately drag him away to view antiquities. He has some interest in them, to be sure; but let’s face it—

  She lifted her pen, amazed at the indelicacy of the sentiment she’d been about to confide to Viscount D’Aubrey: Let’s face it, a man on his honeymoon has other things on his mind besides the tombs and relics of ancient saints.

  She put her arms over her head and stretched luxuriously. Perhaps she would finish her letter later. That was the trouble with Italy: it made one worthless and lazy. It sapped one’s ambition. She got up from the little table she and Christy were using for a writing desk and walked out through the open shutters to the wooden balcony. Past the neat courtyard and the lovely terraced gardens below lay the sail-dotted Corsini Canal, and beyond it, too far away to see, the Adriatic. They had been here for three weeks, on a honeymoon that ought to have begun four months ago, after their Christmas wedding. But Anne had wanted Christy to see Ravenna in April, the way she remembered it best, and so they had delayed their trip. She thought of how they had both worried—she much more than he—that their marriage would scandalize the good people of Wyckerley, coming a mere eight months after Geoffrey’s suicide. But as it turned out, no one minded; everybody was happy for them. (Well, maybe not Thomas Nineways, but what was one man out of hundreds?) People saw the logic in it, too. They had, after all, waited more than a year since the news of Geoffrey’s “death” in the Crimea. And Sebastian Verlaine’s arrival had, as it were, turned Anne out of her own house; how silly to move somewhere else for a few months just to observe the proprieties, when it made so much more sense to go directly to her new husband at the vicarage.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the man in the courtyard below until he whistled to her softly. And, sun-blind, she didn’t recognize Christy until she’d jumped back into the shadows and folded her arms across the front of her negligee. He wagged his finger at her as she crept back out into the light. She blew him a kiss. “I thought you’d never come,” she called out softly. He shook his head and cupped his ear. Louder; she said, “I missed you.” He smiled, and her whole world tilted a little sideways. When he took off his hat, his hair looked like burnished gold in the warm sun, his skin a healthy, handsome shade of bronze. He had on his new suit, his “honeymoon” suit, the one they’d decided he could probably never wear in Wyckerley because it was too decadent. It was white, for one thing; and for another, it was linen. Worst of all, the cut wasn’t English, it was foreign. Ah, but he did look handsome in it, she thought with a sigh. And they’d decided they would come back to Italy every few years, God willing, if only so that Christy could wear his decadent white suit.

  “I’ve brought wine,” he called to her in a loud whisper, holding up a paper-wrapped parcel.

  “Oh, lovely.”

  “And some fruit.”

  She put her hands together prayerfully. “Wonderful—I’m starving.” He shook his head in pretend-amazement. They’d eaten lunch only two hours ago,
before he’d gone off to his sarcophagi and she’d lain down for a nap. She had an idea what her appetite and her persistent sleepiness might signify. But she wasn’t absolutely positive, so she wasn’t saying anything—yet. Oh, but God, it was like capping a volcano, so intense was her longing to tell him the miraculous news! Two more weeks. In two more weeks she’d know for certain, and then—She hugged herself, feeling shot through with happiness.

  He sent her a jaunty salute with his hat and walked off around the pensione, beyond her line of sight. She wandered to the dressing table and sat down, thinking she really ought to do something about her hair. Who was this pretty, pink-cheeked, slightly blowzy-looking woman staring back at her? Could this really be Anne Meredith Verlaine Morrell, lately of Devon, who used to hide away in an attic sitting room and jot down her bitter, caustic thoughts in a journal? Who had taken solitary walks to faraway, abandoned places so that no one could look at her? Who had been so lonely that she’d fantasized long conversations with servants, then been too languid and debilitated to initiate them? It didn’t seem possible, so complete was the transformation. This woman, this girl in the mirror looked as if her biggest worry was which flower to put in her hair for an afternoon of shopping, or whether she would make love with her husband before or after dinner, or both. She smiled at herself, abashed and delighted. Then the key turned in the lock, and she turned to smile at her husband.

  Christy stopped in his tracks when he saw her. She was sitting in a pool of sunlight at her dressing table, brushing her hair, wearing the filmy green dressing gown he’d bought for her in Bologna. She was so beautiful, she hardly looked real. This is my wife. He had to tell himself that once in a while; otherwise, it didn’t seem real either. He set his packages down, except for one, and went to her.

  She lifted her arms for his kiss. “How were your saints coffins?” she asked. She smelled of lilacs and jasmine, and she made his head swim.

  “Deadly. All I could think of was that you were here in bed by yourself and I was in a cold, damp crypt with an eighty-year-old priest. Something seemed awry.” Standing behind her, watching her in the mirror, he gave her his gift. He loved the pleased, feminine expectation in her face as she unwrapped the flowers, and the surprised delight when she saw them. “They’re beautiful,” she sighed, burying her nose in the bright bouquet of fuchsias and arum lilies he’d bought in the flower market. She took his hand from the top of her shoulder and kissed it softly, then leaned her head back against his stomach. “Thank you. I love them.”

  Her hair was still warm from the sun. He slid his hands into it, twining the red-gold curls around his fingers. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and watched her eyes close, her smile widen. “Do you know, Anne, the light is perfect for finishing your portrait.”

  Her eyes flew open. “Now?”

  He shrugged and gestured to the bed, where the afternoon sun was softening the white of the pillows to a mellow rose-gold.

  She tapped a finger to her lips. “It’s certainly taking you a long time to finish this painting. Why is it you can’t seem to make any headway, I wonder?” He hummed noncommittally, hiding a smile. “All right, then,” she said—daring him. She stood up slowly, holding his gaze in the mirror until the last second, and then walked to their big iron bed. Throwing back the rumpled sheets, she got in bed and took up the pose—back against the mountain of pillows, legs drawn up and to the side, head in half-profile, chin dipped slightly. He watched her pull on the ribbons that held her dressing gown closed and slip the garment down over her shoulders. Her white silk nightgown buttoned down the low front. She undid each button slowly, dreamily, not looking at him, as if she were alone in the room. Then she pulled her arms from the sleeves and lifted her head, smiling directly at him. Naked to the waist.

  Sometimes, incredible as it seemed, he was actually able to work on the painting. More often, though, his watercolors dried up before he could use them, which was why this portrait was only half finished after two whole weeks of pretend-painting.

  He went to his easel and swished a brush around in the murky water jar. Anne’s pose was pensive and provocative, innocent and erotic. Like her. He was painting her in pastels, all whites and pinks and subtle flesh tones. If he ever finished it, it would definitely not be among the souvenirs of their trip he planned to show to the members of the vestry when they got home.

  She had a watchful, worried look in her eyes while he took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair. “Christy?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Are you really going to finish it now?”

  He looked up in feigned surprise. One of the joys of his life was teasing his wife. “Shouldn’t I?” She didn’t answer, and he moved toward her slowly, staring at her intently, while her cheeks took on a delicate apricot tinge. He sat down beside her on the bed. “This isn’t quite right,” he said seriously, adjusting a flounce of lacy silk at her waist. His fingers brushed the warm white skin over her ribs, and he heard her breath catch. “Turn your head a little.” He touched the side of her neck, drawing her hair back from her bare shoulder. She was breathing softly through her mouth; she had to wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Don’t move.” He leaned closer to adjust a pillow.

  “Christy,” she whispered. “Don’t finish it now.”

  “Shh. This isn’t right, either.”

  “What?”

  “This.” He touched the tip of her left breast, and she gasped. “That’s better,” he murmured, watching the pink tip tighten and swell. “But . . . it was darker before. Couleur de rose, as we said in art school.”

  “Christy . . .”

  “And shinier, too, as I recall. It must’ve been wet.” He lowered his head and touched his tongue to her nipple. She gave that same enticing, high-pitched gasp, and when he took her breast deeply into his mouth, she moaned—softly, so the German couple in the next suite couldn’t hear. Her hands cupped his temples, holding him gently to his task, and when he raised his head to look at her, she was smiling with her eyes closed. And she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  Her nightgown and robe were tucked modestly around her ankles. He gave the cloth a soft yank and began to pull it over her knees, her thighs. “What are you doing?” she asked on a pleasure-filled sigh. “Aren’t you painting me?”

  “I’ve got a slightly different position in mind.” And he pulled the long, silky leg nearest to him up and over his knees, letting it dangle over the side of the bed.

  Her half-closed eyes flew open, revealing shock. “Very—wanton, this pose,” she managed, breathless again, cheeks flushing.

  “Now I want you to put your head back.” She obeyed as soon as he slid his slow hands along the velvet skin of her inner thighs. Pressing her legs apart, he caressed her with a soft, teasing touch, then deeply, watching the fascinating expressions that came and went in her face. All at once she inhaled sharply. She arched her spine, and he took the blatant offer of her breasts with his mouth, suckling her strongly. He felt her hands clamp around his shoulder blades, felt the muscles of her thighs clench and relax in subtle spasms, and reveled in her long, silent, liquid unraveling.

  Her body went limp by slow, sweet degrees; she dropped her damp forehead on his shoulder. “How lovely,” she told him, between soft, panting breaths. “Christy, you’re so . . . mmmmm.”

  “Sweet Anne,” he whispered. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.”

  She slipped her hand inside his white linen waistcoat to feel the strong pounding of his heart. Under his shirt, every muscle was hard and straining, telling her his effortless-looking self-control wasn’t altogether what it seemed. She smiled to herself, anticipating what was going to happen next, and began to slide the buttons open down his shirt—slowly, not hurrying at all. “You must be warm,” she murmured, her cheek still pillowed against his shoulder. “You can’t paint me in this.” She got to the last button and
tugged his shirt out of his trousers.

  “No, indeed,” he said huskily. “An artist needs freedom of movement.”

  The skin over his flat belly was soft as a child’s, but not as soft as the light fleece of golden hair that covered it. She put her lips in the hollow of his collarbone while she stroked her hand across his chest, humming with pleasure and returning excitement. Not so patient now, he shrugged out of his shirt and waistcoat at the same time and dropped them on the floor. He bent his head and put a hot, wet kiss on her navel, making her squirm, before he slid out from under the tangle of her legs and stood up. She stretched like a cat, watching him unfasten his trousers, feeling sultry and irresistible. She shimmied out of her bunched-up nightgown and negligee, then slid down farther in the bed, admiring her husband’s tall and gloriously naked body. All that blond hair and all that lovely skin, covering all those beautiful muscles. Sometimes it didn’t seem possible that she was married to a minister.

  Sinking down beside her, he put his hands in her hair and spread it out on the pillow, making a fan with his fingers. “Oils next,” he said, and he had that intent look again in his beautiful blue eyes. “Rich reds and golds, maybe a little florid and overdone; something after Titian, I think. Although your figure isn’t quite as . . . generous.” She pouted her bottom lip until he thought to add, “Thank heavens,” and gave her bosom a soft, appreciative squeeze. She thought of asking him if he had just thanked God for her breasts, but decided against it. He’d take the question seriously, and the last thing she wanted to get into with him right now was a theological discussion.